


After The Fall

by theunremarkable



Series: Kodaline [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1980s, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes-centric, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Epistolary, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theunremarkable/pseuds/theunremarkable
Summary: If perchance the body of James ‘Buchanan’ Barnes of the 107th Infantry, had been found in the Alps in the years following 1945, perhaps a letter would have been found tucked into his breast pocket. Perhaps the letter would have been addressed to a ‘Steve Rogers’, of Brooklyn, USA. Perhaps it would talk of a friendship, a kinship, a brotherly bond and the sorrow of that loss, and the urge of a promise to live a life just as full without him. Or perhaps it would declare a great love, the greatest there ever was, a love so strong that could fracture the world if it was allowed to bloom too long.But we will never know, because the world does not work in perchances and perhaps.~Instead, a new letter written some years later reads a little like this.Some fucking day in 1983Dear Stevie,I’m angry, I already said that one. I’m livid, I’m furious, agitated, irked, enraged, riled up, seething and peeving, incensed, hackles raised, hot under the collar and downright hopping mad. Why?Fuck you, that’s why.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Kodaline [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815748
Comments: 40
Kudos: 250





	After The Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Each of the stories in The Kodaline Series will be accompanied by a little soundtrack by Kodaline that inspired the work, either by title, lyrics, feelings or otherwise.
> 
> This is After The Fall, hopefully you'll find the slight nuances in the letter Bucky writes to Steve. 
> 
> I know it's rather upbeat for how angry and upset Bucky is, but the music is juxtaposed to the lyrics, and it's kinda how Bucky portrays himself to the world, compared to what he's really feeling. How perfect is the song title, though! 
> 
> https://youtu.be/6-6sDRrBznE

“Ah, Agent Barnes, yes, come in,” Bucky hears before he’s even raised his hand to knock. He opens the door and Doctor Ershell gestures for him to take a seat opposite the desk.

“With all due respect, Doctor, I’m not sure I really need to be here anymore,” Bucky attempts. He’s not had much luck sweet talking his way out of these appointments, but he’d be disappointed in himself if he didn’t at least try.

“Meaning?”

“You said we, I quote, made 'great progress', the last I was here."

“And you believe that to be true?”

“Yeah, I feel fine.” Fine, fine, always fine. Sometimes he's good, sometimes he's alright, just so no one can wise up to him, but fine is an accepted baseline.

“That’s excellent, then. I’m glad for you.”

“So can I go?”

“Unfortunately, after a, uh, incident like that, it’s simply S.H.I.E.L.D standard procedure to follow up.”

“Yeah, well, after such a incident, as you wanna call it, I’m actually pretty fucking tired and I’d like to clean the blood off my boots,” Bucky spits out, suddenly angry, and rises from his chair. It scrapes loudly against the wooden floor as he knocks it out of the way, headed for the door. He knew this would happen, but he at least thought he’d get a chance to attempt to drown himself in he shower first.

“James,” Doctor Ershell says as he reaches for the door handle. There’s a pause, from both of them, before, “Peggy’s worried about you. And I think we both know you’d rather have it out here with me, where everything is confidential, than privately with her. If you humour me for a few more moments of your time, I promise to pass along a report of flying colours.”

Bucky sighs, mostly because it’s all true. But the doctor doesn’t need to know that, so he makes a show of grumbling about it as he slumps down in the chair for the second time.

“You’d lie for me just for keeping you company a bit?”

“Are you saying that it would, in fact, be a lie to pass you on your return-to-field psychological evaluation?”

Bucky grunts, then adds “Bloody doctors,” for good measure.

He gets a tight lipped smile in response, and it's obvious that he's meant to go first.

“So? What can I do ya for, doc?”

“Honestly, I too am worried about you. Today was quite-, well it would cause emotional stress in anyone, regardless of whether or not they had your predisposing background.”

Bucky waits, because it’s a statement, not a question. But he’s long played these games with S.H.I.E.L.D’s therapists, and knows at Ershell is one that can outlast him. And he really does want a shower and some sleep, if he can manage it.

“Well, I ain’t gonna sing you a song about it.”

“No, I’d expect as much. How about talking, then?”

Buck purses his lips together in a way he knows will make them go white, and shakes his head.

“I see. Well, the truth will out, as they say, one way or another. What is your preferred method, then? No, I take that back,” Ershell holds a hand up as Bucky releases his lips to talk. “Whiskey and darts aren’t effective methods in my highly sought after and extensive medical opinion. How about writing down your feelings?”

“Like a diary?” That suggestion, actually it’s new, gets a raised eyebrow and a disapproving glare.

“You mentioned you had a friend who described sketching as therapeutic, peaceful, that’s when they looked the most serene. You can sketch for me, if you’d prefer.”

“Don’t think I said nothing about sketching. Or any friends," Bucky says gruffly. A trickle of ice cold dread seeps down his spine, but they're just talking. Just talking.

“And I don’t believe you’ve ever expressed a desire to be artistic. It was just a suggestion.” They stare off a moment more before the doctor adds, rather gently, “How about a letter?”

“May I ask how that is different from a diary?”

“If you address it to someone you know, it might seem a little less absurd in your mind, even if you never intend to give it to them. Sometimes, without the fear of response but still the personal aspect, it’s easier to open up, knowing there's no chance of judgement, or shame, or-”

“The only person I’m feeling those things from, right now, is you, actually.”

Doctor Ershell sighs. “Alright, Agent Barnes, I can see this is not working. You are free to go home, I shall let Agent Carter know that her services, and that of another therapist, are required before you can return-”

“No, wait.”

Bucky gets a raised eyebrow for his outburst, but he takes a moment to swallow.

“I’ll write the letter.”

“Excent choice.” It’s not condescending, but rather accompanied with a smile, a rather ridiculous stack of paper and a pencil.

“I don’t exactly know who to write to, or what about,” Bucky admits after a moment of staring at the paper, albeit a bit apprehensively.

“Why don’t you start with how your day has gone. You can address it to Steve.”

Bucky forces his face not to react, but his stomach twists horribly, like it always does when someone mentions Steve without warning. He’s downplaying the localisation of course, it’s not just his stomach, it’s his chest, his windpipe, it’s his whole damned body. But it’s easier to pretend it’s just his stomach, especially in front of a trained therapist who might actually lock him up if he gives a hint of more.

To be fair, the sketching comment was a warning. An air raid siren, gunshot in the middle of the night, floodlight to your eye kind of warning.

“I don't think my dead best friend is gonna want to hear that I had peaches for breakfast, doc,” he grits out. Not his best work, admittedly, but it’s been a long day, and he thinks the blood that’s splattered atop his boots might also actually be inside, too. And it’s not his blood.

“Well, he’s not here to tell you otherwise.”

It’s a matter of fact statement and it’s true, but it still forces a sound from Bucky that’s not unlike a winding, and when he looks down, the pencil he was provided has snapped in half.

“Why him?”

“It can be anyone you choose. But I have a feeling that he’s a part of the issue, here.”

“The issue being that I was held as a prisoner of war, if that's what we're gonna call it while skirting around the real word, for 23 years and then some, experimented on and had my brain put into a blender just to be turned into some super murderer, then accidentally did just that to a few of the fuckers who were responsible today?” Admitting that is easier than thinking about Steve.

What a strange world he’s found himself in.

“Yes.”

“That’s not got anything to do with Steve. I’ve never even mentioned anything to suggest that.”

“Exactly.”

He studies the doctor for a moment. He could try lying, he’s been trained well, and that is the business he’s in, but he probably should have planted that seed earlier if he was going to act on it.

“Smart,” he settles on, and it comes out as a mumble. He knows when he’s beat. He picks up the new pencil offered and leans forward. “Are you going to read it?”

“Yes.”

Bucky sighs, and runs his fingers through his hair. Those, at least, are both clean. He ponders for a moment, like a child waiting for instructions.

“I may ask you to write another if I find idle chit chat about peaches or the weather in there, Agent Barnes.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Bucky waves a hand but brings it forward to write the date. “Though I reckon you’re just one of those narks and this is all a ploy to sell some gossip to the world. I hear his secrets fetch a pretty penny,” he tries, weakly.

“I just want the truth. For you. I want you to know, and accept the truth.”

“I don’t even know what the truth is.” And that’s actually true.

“That’s because you’ve been running from it. No one’s ever suggested, ever told you to stop and face it, because you’ve explicitly stated with everything but your words for them not to. And they allow it because they respect you. Because they don’t want to upset you. But frankly, Agent Barnes, it’s been this way for longer than I’ve been alive. Aren’t you tired?”

At this, Bucky can’t control his face anymore. It falls. “I’m so tired,” he whispers.

With a wave of a hand from the doctor, Bucky begins, and finds he doesn’t need anymore encouragement to continue. In fact, it’s almost hard to stop once he does, but by the time the words run dry, he's no longer tired. He’s exhausted. He puts down his pencil, blotting at the few stray tears that have already destroyed the graphite. Still, it looks neater than if it was pulled from a bloody body, or blown in half, or was completely waterlogged in the river that he so narrowly avoided when he fell.

They’re tears of anger, of course.

Staring at the letter, his eyes don't focus on the the page, or the swirls of cursive, or anything from this time. They're focused on a memory, he has those now.

When he wrote his final letters, his just in case letters, for his family, he felt nothing. Sure, he was scared right down to his bones that he wasn’t going to come home from the war, so much so he trembled in his cot at night, shoved his fist into his mouth so no one else heard his whimpers and scrubbed his face raw to hide the tears the next morning. He wrote to his Ma, to his sisters, the words saying everything they needed, to try not to miss him, to live a good life just like he had. To enjoy the warm of the sun on their skin, that he hadn’t felt in a while, in a way that had nothing to actually do with the sun. But he felt empty while writing them, as if he was discussing the bland taste of the army’s oatmeal. Actually, he mustered up more emotion when talking about that sludge, for it was right in the dictionary, listed under disgusting.

He pushes the pages away from him, towards the doctor, in silent desperation. He studies Ershell’s face as suddenly the words become true, they’re there, they're out there in the world and there's no taking them back, but the doctor’s face is as blank as the remaining stack of unused papers.

“I,uh- the last time I wrote him a letter it was my death letter, you know. The one that soldiers keep on them until they die, that their platoon delivers back to their loved ones for them when they don't make it back,” he admits in a small voice, once he knows it’s been enough time for Doctor Ershell to have read it through, twice even. “Guess my uniform was burned when I was-. Don’t reckon anyone kept it. Guess this must be my second chance.”

For a moment he doesn’t think he’s going to get a response, but Ershell simply folds up the letter and places it in an envelope before handing it back to him.

“I’m proud of you, Agent Barnes. And I hope this helps provide some of the peace you deserve.”

He hopes so too, he thinks mildly as he’s dismissed, although he’s adamant he doesn’t deserve it.

He certainly doesn’t feel more at peace walking out of the office, but maybe that’s because he didn’t actually read the words he just wrote. He just let them fly out his fingers as quickly as he allowed himself to think them, and hell, he’s not even sure he wrote in English. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Bucky’s not going to make it home, at this rate. The twisting tightness is back, or maybe it never left, he’s not sure, but he rushes to the bathroom and vomits once. It’s not even food at this point, it never is anymore, just water and bile. He sits atop the toilet seat and takes out the letter.

His letter.

To Steve.

His fingers are shaking so much, he’s fumbling with the unsealed envelope, he can’t get the pages out. He used to be a damned sniper, Sergeant James Barnes, the 107th, for fuck’s sake.

He manages, fucking finally, and reads quickly, racing towards the promised peace.

But now, re-reading the words he’d just poured out, well-

_Some fucking day in 1983_

_Dear Stevie,_

_God, there’s that stupid nickname. I don’t know why I started it. You don’t even know that it’s yours, but I know you’ll hate it. It’ll get under your skin, make your blood bubble and boil, might finally, actually keep you warm for once. Cept you did that yourself. Whatever that scientist did to you fixed that right up, god you ran as hot as a blasted Brooklyn heatwave all through the Commando days. Lucky you were the size of two men, which meant you could keep four warm at once. I know you were chuffed about that bit, doing so much good, helping out, even when asleep. Which is why I know you’d hate the name ‘Stevie’. You’d think it sounds like a baby, a child, someone small who needs taken care of. Remind ya of who you think you used to be, though you’d slap me away if I even looked at you with a hint of that, nevermind at the time you had rheumatic fever and your asthma played up at the same time, dead of winter, no less. Bite my head off with words that’d make your Ma roll in her grave when I forced soup down your throat by pinching your nose when you already couldn’t breathe right, cause I was sick of seeing your bones poking bruises into your own skin. God you were a bit of an angry fucker, weren’t you?_

_Well guess what? I’m angry too. I’ll write out as many ways as I can to let you know, apparently I can afford to waste paper these days and it’ll keep me busy long enough that the sod watching will think it’s doing some good. Hiya sod, the doc’s gonna read after, I forgot to mention, so don’t say anything incriminating. Though me writing to myself or asking you not to write back might already do that. It’s not, in case you’re wondering. Doing me good, that is, but modern day medicine thinks writing it out will magically fix me._

_I tell ya Stevie, there ain’t no fixing this._

_I’m angry, I already said that one. I’m livid, I’m furious, agitated, irked, enraged, riled up, seething and peeving, incensed, hackles raised, hot under the collar and downright hopping mad. Why?_

_Fuck you, that’s why._

_You know they told me you crashed the plane most straight after it happened. Strapped up naked to a table, apparently I wasn’t a model or compliant prisoner of something, and some idiot put my tags and uniform, where they found me and the news together, two plus two, they teach that across the world maybe, and thought it would shut me up. So I knew what an idiot you’d been right up. And I got to pay the price of your stupidity. Pretty standard, that last bit._

_And yeah, me shutting or giving up cause I got told you were dead? Dreamin, Stevie, they were dreamin! Screamed so loud and long they threatened to cut my tongue out. They didn’t, actually, might be the one part of me that’s still intact, but I got a muzzle instead. Like an animal._

_Also it was only when I knew they could see that I didn’t give up. Pretending, you see, lying. Maybe I was a born natural, shoulda been in the SSR from the start. Or maybe they actually knew and just didn’t care that I wanted to join ya, I didn’t want to fight anymore, as long as I was quiet about it and stopped biting fingers off. Muzzle, you see._

_I took care of you almost your whole life Stevie. Even though you didn’t want it, even though it made you hate me a little. But the one time I wanted you to take care of me, to save me from being beat up in an alley or a dumpster or feed me warm broth, you didn’t. Cause you were too busy being a dumb fuckin idiot. And then some._

_Oh yeah, you got me out from Krausberg. I’m not forgetting that. I was grateful at the time, coulda wept you your own Danube, you know lack of human experimentation and torture and all, but I often think it just would’ve been better for everyone if I hadda just gone boom with the rest of the building. Coulda saved a whole lotta hassle. But you appeared like a fucking angel outta nowhere and stopped the pain, shot your mouth and promised me everything was gonna be okay. That sets a sort of expectation, you know. And I know you hate to disappoint._

_Because they didn’t just beat me, Stevie. This wasn’t a shiner for a week, extra chores cause we got nose bleeds and scuffed knees of our Sunday best._

_Nah, they tried to break me._

_You know I don’t believe in heaven, but I sure as heck know hell is real now. Spent some time there already, I’m well acquainted. And I know that after my time is done here, that’s where I’ll be headed, and I know for sure I’ll see a lot of the same fellas there. Sent a few today, probably shouldn’t have, just gave them a head start on preparing for me._

_Hell is sometimes watching Zola’s weasle face staring down at me and me wondering why he’s so calm when everything is so clearly on fucking fire. It’s choking on my own vomit when they put the blue stuff, then green stuff, then the electricity in my veins. But what am I even saying, you were still here for all that, so that’s my slice of heaven, served with peaches and cream. (The sod said no mention of peaches, but I’m feeling particularly shitty right now.)_

_Its feeling my arm ripped off, but then hearing that it's a fucking weird place to attach a new one, so it gets sawed off even more while I get my head strapped down and eyes held open to watch. It’s more of the blue, green stuff, actually there might have been some yellow, I dunno I got distracted when they cut me open through the stomach and pushed my organs around outside my inside, made me hold my own intestine because it was too long and getting in the way. It was getting shot when I didn’t learn whatever language they wanted that day, getting my ribs pulled out just be stabbed with them when I didn’t stand to attention quick enough. It was choking damn children when they asked cause when I refused they'd let the dogs feed on instead._

_Over days._

_Think they mighta screamed louder than me._

_After a while, a good long while, hell got pretty chilled out, mostly because I didn’t remember much. Well, I remember more now, but at the time it was a chair, the electricity in my brain, then waking up covered in blood, sometimes on top of a body or back in a cell, then being_ _beaten and hosed, god the hose might actually have been the worst of the lot, then forget and repeat. ~~Ah, the good old days, ammiright?~~_

_Then I got out, god bless Peggy Carter is what I’m meant to say for her efforts, then hell was living without you._

_Sure I don’t gotta explain that one._

_I still dream about it every night. The stuff I remember, anyway. The stuff I don’t, that blank bit I mentioned, I’m still trying to piece together, Peg’s helping even though she doesn’t think it’s helpful, says it’s harmful but I’m still a sweet talker and she’s got access to the files of sorts. Because god knows I don’t deserve to forget what I did, even if I wasn’t in control or it was a basic human instinct of survival of whatever shit the head doctors picks on any given day to appease me._

_It's the same doctors, idiots the lot of them, that keep spouting the idea of time, time heals all wounds, time helps, time is on your side, blah blah. Well fuck me. Seeing as you were so bent on rescuing me from Krausberg even if it was just a corpse, you couldn’t have done it before Zola cursed me to walk the earth forever? Cause it seems that time’s all I have now. Don't feel much more than a corpse, some days._

_You know I thought I’d like the future. It’s unreal, almost like witchcraft except it's all science. But it’s strange, and uncomfortable and I know it would make you anxious even to think about it, it’d drive you damn mad just existing, so maybe that’s the main reason I wish you were here, just to get back at you a little._

_And I wanna let go of this anger Stevie, I really do. A few people have sorta guessed at it, and said that I’ll probably never be okay, can't move on and find peace, until I do, or some hocus pocus jargon along those lines. But for some dumb reason now’s the time I actually hold on. Ha! Wouldn’t that grip’ve been nice in 45’. Coulda saved us all some trouble. In my nature to be a troublemaker I guess. ~~Or maybe I learnt that from you.~~ I didn't mean that. _

_Sometimes I wonder if I had been alive, nah hell I was alive, I was just otherwise indisposed having the fucking time of my life, if I coulda talked you out of your dumb idea. Peggy didn’t much try, not hard enough, I’ll still say that even when she told me what it meant to have a ‘choice’._

_Wasn’t my choice to fall, Stevie._

~~_Sometimes I wonder if it was maybe because you thought I was dead that you did it in the first place._ ~~

_I wrote the date so you’d know it's been thirty-eight years of this. Cept of course you won’t know. On account of you being dead and all. Also I’m a liar, still got that going for me, there’s a good ~~five, ten,~~ twelve or so years that jumbled together when I didn’t have my mind in that hell hole. Pegs got me out after twenty-three years, so maybe it's closer to fifteen years of being sound of mind angry. But technically, and I know you like your technicals, it's been thirty-eight years. Of being this angry. You don’t even need to count the years I cussed you out for being stubborn headed with sickness or getting into fights, cause trust me Stevie, they’re fucking sonnets compared to now. _

_I reckon this anger feels a bit like them ulcers you used to get, it burns me up and makes me feel sick. Cept it’s loud sometimes, too. So loud that you know I actually took up lip reading? Cause people talk and I can’t hear a damn word they’re saying. Nevermind that half what their saying doesn’t actually even make sense. So yeah, half the time I look like a right idiot because I can‘t eat and I say ‘huh’ a lot and I still drop or break things with this metal arm, but I can’t tell anyone it because it’s you that finally broke me._

_Doc mentioned something today that I didn’t realise was true, so I guess they're not all idiots. I’m tired. Tired of being angry, of living without you. I’m so tired, down to my bones, makes breathing heaving, doesn’t escape me in sleep, makes even existing hard kind of tired, you know? I reckon you do, you musta felt this way once or twice when things were call the priest bad. Probably not since you pulled your biggest and stupidest stunt and signed away your life, though. But none of us are you though, Stevie, no one will ever be you or come close, to able to be useful while asleep, posing as a goddamn furnace._

_Did you know you were useful in your sleep before that too? Used to calm my heart just to hear your breath rattle when the night was clear, calm it to the rhythm and then stutter when it changed, that bit was a nightmare, but I still would never have traded it. Was so hard to get to sleep at the start of the war but I didn't know that was what I was missing. Nah, you didn't know that because I never told you. Guess I'm a dumb fuckin idiot too._

_You know you’re still doing good dead, too? You basically ended the war, that one at least, and gave every Tom, Dick and Sally a reason to get up in the morning, to enjoy peace, but also inspire them to fight for their rights and their country. Kids run round in the red, white and blue, minus the stupid booty shorts, and a shield once a year and ask for candy. I tell ‘em to fuck off. Yeah, you did good Stevie, ya punk. For everyone except me. ~~I thought I was the one who would matter most.~~_

_Anyways, time to tell the doc to stick it, cause I’ve been writing a while and guess what, still angry. And all them other words I mentioned as well. I wrote it all out, and I’m pretty sure the next step is meant to be letting it go, or forgiveness, or moving on or some shit like that. But I just can’t. It’s eating me up, and I gotta tell you, I sat through all kinds of torture I didn’t bother to write out cause I’m looking at a three inch pile of paper right now and I know it still wouldn’t be enough. But this is the worst torture._

_Hell, I’m angry. And I know people think its because of what was done to me, that I'm mad at those fuckers. But I'm not. I couldn't care less. I'm angry at you, because you weren't there. Not even the option of being there. Not even 'a body brought home to get a gravestone for me to maybe kick' kind of there._

_Instead you got a memorial that me and a few million other people get to share. I get yelled at if I kick it._

_Pissed, that's a word for angry that I haven't used yet. Yeah, I'm pretty pissed at you for not being there. Wasn't the end of the line, not yet. Wasn't even our stop._

_I'm angry at you for not being here._

_But I also reckon, only just now, that I might be scared. Like, call for my Ma, I’m dying on the front line scared. I’m scared if I let go of this anger, something else will take its place. I don’t want to be sad the rest of my already miserable life, Stevie. I’m still handsome, but you know I’m an ugly crier. But anger chisels my jaw and I look good with a pout, it's what all the models do these days._

_Maybe in another thirty-eight years I’ll give it a go. Everyone I know now will be dead by then so I can afford to look ugly. Or I’ll have worked long enough to never have to leave the house ever again. I’ll become a ghost story, a myth, the history books will forget about me. They won’t ever forget about you though._

_Neither will I._

_So off I go, guess I’ll write again in thirty-eight years. Just to be a jerk, might make you wait forty. Or could have a change of heart and do it in twenty-eight, you never know. Guess I’ll just keep doing what I do until then. Living my life._

_What’s my life if it’s not loving you?_

_~~I guess it’s hating you.~~ It’s this._

_So yeah, fuck you._

_Your fucking ‘pal’,_  
_Bucky_

Well, that didn’t do shit.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a sucker for comments, so please let me know what you like/dislike/if you had peaches for breakfast or anything in between.


End file.
